The Sunday Scaries
Volume 1, Number 20
Microfiction by Pat Harrigan
Content Warning: Language and Horror

The Blank

I first noticed it in March of that year, when we all stopped going anywhere for a while. I’d always thought of myself as a pretty smart guy, good imagination, rich inner life, that sort of thing. But then that month, when we were alone, I’d catch myself sitting there, and I’d ask myself, what had I been thinking about? I’d been thinking about something but I’d forgotten what it was. But after a while I realized: I wasn’t forgetting. I just hadn’t been thinking about anything at all. Is that normal? I wasn’t thinking about even, I don’t know, work stuff, or what to have for dinner, or fantasizing about fucking Margot Robbie or whatever. I’d just been sitting there, a total blank, for who knows how long.
          It affected my work. Now there I was for sure forgetting things. I’d worked there for over a decade, some things should be easy, automatic. But what was that email again? What was that acronym for? So work was getting harder. But even when I wasn’t working it was bad. Forgetting the names of old friends, for instance. Okay, I wasn’t seeing anybody in person except my wife, but that’s not an excuse. People were calling this sort of thing smooth pandemic-brain, but it wasn’t a joke to me. I’m not sure it had anything to do with the pandemic, even. In my case, this is just my theory, it had been happening to me for a long long time, but I didn’t notice before, because when you leave your house, even to just take a bus to work or go buy a cup of coffee, there’s some sort of stimulus to keep your thoughts running. They’re not organized, it’s all trivial stuff, but at least it’s operating. Take that away, and I… wasn’t operating.
          They fired me. Then it got really bad. My inner monologue vanished completely. I was all quiet inside. I slept a lot. I spent hours playing little phone games. My wife had to remind me of things, all the time. That restaurant closed, don’t you remember? We took that trip to Santa Fe, don’t you remember? No, I didn’t remember. I don’t remember. I’d say my wife’s name to myself, over and over and over, every night before I fell asleep, terrified that I’d wake up and not know who she was.
          Quarantine was long over but I still didn’t do anything. Why see people? I could hardly remember any history with anyone. Turns out affection is basically just memory and habit. Some old friends died. I felt nothing. I watched every episode of Kitchen Nightmares and forgot them all the moment they were over.
          I wonder, will I forget to breathe one day?
          Go see a doctor, she keeps saying. With what money, I ask. We can afford it, she says. Okay, okay. She thinks I’m procrastinating, but it’s not that. I’m just waiting until I forget to care.
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